


The Sweet Secrets of Loving

by corellians_only



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hidden Talents, Modern AU, Soft Kisses, obi-wan bakes, soldier obi-wan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corellians_only/pseuds/corellians_only
Summary: Obi-Wan returns from deployment with a sweet surprise. Domestic fluff ensues.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

Silver keys seemed to dance in your hand as you fumbled with the lock, the metal glaring in your face as they reflected the merciless fluorescent lights bearing down on you with foreboding.

After several agonizing moments spent twisting the key, trying to locate the elusive sweet spot that would permit access to your apartment, the stubborn thing acquiesced and the door swung open.

He was already there. A feeling like a soft summer breeze swept over you at the sight his buzzed auburn hair, his pride and authority etched into his shoulders like the precise stitching of his combat uniform still clinging to his back. He was staring out the window, and you could tell from the way his thumb curled around the unit insignia on his left ring finger that he was anxious.

“Darling?” you called out, mustering the last dredges of your willpower to not sprint to his side.You simply waited by the door, setting down the cumbersome black box of files your boss had insisted you take home this evening, no, really, it would be most helpful if you could compare the spring and fall mockups tonight. The box of responsibility rebounded off the hardwood floor and skidded slightly, blending in with the muffled closing of the door behind you.

It was no matter, anyway. The box had barely escaped the protective gaze of your fingers when he was pulling you into him. His head bowed down to nestle in the crook of your neck and you laughed as his fine hair tickled your cheek. You pressed a kiss to his sheared locks. “Hello, Obi-Wan,” you whispered, as though speaking any louder would bring a curse upon you both, would take him away from you again.

At the sound of his name, Obi-Wan straightened and took your face in his hands. His thumb drew angels across your cheekbones. “Darling,” he breathed. Aquamarine eyes met yours. It felt like getting caught in the hail — confusion, wonder, a homecoming of understanding, a bite of pain.

When the two of you video chat during his deployments, his eyes are always darker. They’re steel and iron and the reflection of your keys in the hallway and the torment of a sea during the storm as it fights against the waves.

Every time he comes home, they change. They become lighter, the way his body does without the Kevlar bulletproof vest.

When he looks at you like that — like the world would burn and he would still go to war to fight for you alone — your resolve shatters, the way a window must when his bullet crashes through its pane, searching for the sniper.

Your fingers grasp his wrists and tug at the end of his sleeve. The pink of your painted nails contrasts horribly with his camouflage, and the absurd thought makes you laugh even as he dips his head in acquaintance to your nonverbal command.

The first kiss is simple, like the routine act of walking from the metro to you apartment. Routine, familiar, but not unexciting. A expression of the vibrancy of life. Your lips meet his, like an embrace, and stay there for several long moments.

A second kiss, the third, the fourth: these are more demanding. The way his hands slip under diaphanous emerald silk tells you that this is more like a carefully timed assault. His mouth is precise and exacting, his tongue pushes back against your claims to dominance, his fingers press into skin and yours clutch at the unforgiving fabric of his uniform.

You disconnect and he smiles, a steady, even thing that shows his teeth. Even so, it threatens to split his face in two, and the dust that seems to be shedding from his laugh lines makes you wonder the last time he was truly happy.

But you ascend to your tiptoes and kiss his cheek and banish all thoughts of his deployment, at least for tonight. “C’mon, Obi-Wan.” You take his hand and start dragging him to the kitchen. “Let’s eat.”

____

It is not until later that evening that you discover his secret. Padding into the kitchen, you open the fridge to retrieve a new bottle of sparkling water when something strange caught your eye.

“Obi?” you say. The hike in your tone matches the spike in your anxiety and unease. “You didn’t happen to pick up some tofu in miso when you went to store earlier, did you? There’s uh —“ you pause, staring at the blob in apprehension — “something…weird in the fridge.”

“Ah.” He follows your path into the kitchen and steps behind you to better see the object in question. “I see you’ve found dessert. I wondered how long it would take.” Amusement colors his tone, and you turn your head to see a smirk decorating his lips.

“Oh.” The unassuming expression is the only thing that enters your vacuous mind, consumed by the strangeness of the oval-shaped yellow-and-caramel colored mass. You run your fingers through your hair — now freed from its stuffy updo — in an attempt to wrest some meaning back into your existence. “What, um, what is it?”

Obi-Wan extends his arms and catches you in an embrace from behind. “It’s a flan, darling!” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Obi-Wan squeezes your waist in excitement and you lean back into his chest, comforted that its soft cotton of an old t-shirt that greets you, rather than his fatigues.

“Oh.” Emptiness returns, and now the exoticism of the strange food is coupled with curious revulsion that Obi-Wan is so interested in something that seems so…unappealing.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and gently scoots you out of his path and puts the platter on the counter. You watch him as he gathers plates, washes fresh utensils, and meticulously cuts the thing, taking care to add extra sauce to each slice. He thrusts a plate at you. “Try it,” he urges.

You don’t like dessert. Never have. You’d rather eat something savory than something sweet, and after years of failed attempts, Obi-Wan has largely given up. But here he is, staring at you with those aquamarine eyes, practically begging you to try this foreign sweet treat.

So you do. The custard is smooth, like the silk of your top, and flecked with spots of intense vanilla flavoring. Caramel oozes into every bite, rich in tone and balancing the tenderness of the egg and sugar.

“Oh my god.” You meet his eyes, and you can tell he’s valiantly staving off another grin. He never presses his lips together like that otherwise. “This is — Obi, this is amazing. Like, vintage Chanel kind of amazing.”

He laughs aloud at your comparison, taking the two plates and reassuming his previous position on the couch.

“I’m glad to hear you enjoy it, sweetheart.” He erupts into another round of chuckles when you moan around the next bite.

“What did you say this is?” you point to the concoction with you spoon.

“Flan, dearest,” he says mildly, taking a bite himself. “Ah, you’re right, it did turn out rather well today. My mother would be proud.”

The statement gives you pause, and you set down your spoon. “Your mother? Wait — did you make this?”

Obi-wan looks at you, surprise evident in his half-smile and narrowed eyes. “Of course I did! Where did you think I got it?”

“I didn’t know you could bake!” The statement is bald, and childish, but you don’t care.

“How did you think all the cookies and tray bakes appeared, then?” He raises an eyebrow mischievously. There’s nothing he loves more than poking holes in your logic, especially when you cling to it so resolutely.

“Oh, I don’t know!” you splutter. “I suppose I thought you bought them, or something!” You throw him a mock glare. “Not my fault you never told me that you bake.”

He launches himself forward and drops a conciliatory kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’m very sorry, darling,” he says seriously, but there’s a twinkle in his eye so you shove him away from you. The gesture is playful and wondrous in its innocence, and for a moment you feel as though you are in university again, staying up late in the student lounge talking, long before uniforms and obligations and separations. You want to say something but the words get caught in your throat as you remember your promise to leave the boots behind. At least this one night.

“What is flan, anyway? When did you learn to make it?” you say instead, forcing the words out and taking another bite. The sweetness caresses the bitterness lingering in your mind.

“It’s a long story,” he says, shifting his gaze to the window.

You place an hand on his bare arm. “I want to hear it,” you say, and you do.

So he tells you. He tells you of his French mother spending her childhood summers across the Pyrenees in Spain, learning dishes like arroz con pollo and tortilla española and flan. The family cook become a grandmother to her, he says, and again he plays with the unit insignia on his ring and you know he misses his mother more than ever.

Flan became his mother’s speciality, he explains. He points to the sheen on the custard and talks about how his mother learned how to perfectly beat the eggs and how she favored the caramel sauce against the hard caramel on her native country’s creme brûlée and how the family cook in Spain gifted her with her very own flan pan when she was eighteen years old.

You ask him how he came to bake such things. He smiles again and despite its joy, your heart aches because you never knew. While his father was deployed, he would bake with his mother to keep her company, and she taught him tarte tatin alongside flan and the Bakewell tarts his father so enjoyed.

“It was how she told people she loved them,” he says with a shrug, finishing his portion. “She would bake for the other women whose husbands were deployed, or for the family next door, or for my best friend’s cousin’s birthday, or if I had a bad day at school there would be something sweet waiting for before I went to bed.” Obi-wan rests his head on his hand, considering. “I guess I’m the same way. I came home and I wanted to do something nice for you, to tell you I love you.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Obi.” The pun is bad and you both know it, but he laughs and kisses you anyway. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“I love you too,” you murmur against his mouth. “Will you bake me something tomorrow?”

“Darling,” he presses a kiss to the edge of your lips. “I will bake you something every single day if that is what makes you happy.”

And you say you want him to, because you want him to love you forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan calms you after a nightmare. Loads of unapologetic fluff :')

You were in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, and later, you would wonder how you had perceived its melodic hum in the first place — not with exuberance of Gershwin bathing the flat through the stereo, or the push and pull of the cupboard doors as you made sure you had gotten his favorite ingredients from the grocery store, or the mind-numbing thuds leaking through the ceiling (the upstairs neighbors were always making a ruckus, really, didn’t they know it was quite rude?)

But you did hear the doorbell, despite all the silly cacophonies of daily life, and you had rolled your eyes. Because of course he would ring the door bell instead of striding right in.

“Obi, you’re such a dork!” you called as you hastened to greet him. Your voice seemed to push out of your chest, eager seek the person for whom your words were intended. Distasteful neon socks skidded to a halt in front of the white door. And waited. Waited for his response. This was a game you played, you and him. You called him a dork and he responded with some phrase in that infuriatingly impeccable French of his.

There was no response, and you frowned. A phantom thought seized you with a bucket of ice water and for a moment you sank into its abyss. But then you surfaced, like you always did when this ghost came to say hello, and promptly kicked him out. Not today.

You opened the door to see your husband. But you did not see your husband. It was just the doorman, with your mail. An absentminded exchange, a glance (that seemed to you, later) full of arsenic, poison in the form of terribly common white powder.

There was something for you in a white envelope, and you opened it without care, like you handle flour — instinctively — like you did everyday, with bills, invoices, statements. A line here, a line there, we regret to inform you — wait. That wasn’t in the script. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.

The phantom wrapped you in his embrace. You dropped the letter. And screamed.

——-

Someone was shaking you. Or maybe you were the one shaking? You weren’t sure. Everything felt heavy and wrapped too tightly around you. The taste of Gershwin lingered on your tongue and disbelief shook your eardrums with tinnitus.

It was suddenly too much, and you kicked your legs, twisting out of the sheets. Your arms struggled against the phantom who was now refusing to let you go, slipping now to haunt you into reality.

“Let me go!” You tried to yell, but the words slipped out like a plea, like prayers do when the soul knows no other recourse.

“Darling!” a voice, one you knew, crawled under the cracks and nestled that space between you neck and your chest. _“C’est moi, cherié, seulement moi.”_

“Only you?” you murmured, repeating his declaration in English even as you clutched at that phase between sleep and aliveness.

 _“C’est vrai._ Yes, my love, it’s me,” he responded. A thumb — his right? his left? did it matter? — traced your eyebrow, your cheek, your jaw. “Look at me, sweetheart. It’s alright, hm?” His voice washed over you, like ripples reaching out across a lake after a child has thrown a stone into its tranquility.

You obeyed silently, meeting his gaze. Fairy lights strung above your bed made him glow, and his blue eyes were tender. The realization of his solidness made you cry.

“Sssh, love. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.” He was accustomed to your tears, as much as you were ashamed to admit, but such is the way things are.

“Obi-Wan, I—“ speech, for once, defied you, leaving you bereft in its abandonment. Hot, sticky tears swam over your cheeks, down your chin, skimming your collarbone. “I’m sorry,” you tried again, sweeping trembling fingers across cold cheeks. “I — I shouldn’t be—“ you took a deep breath — “the one having nightmares.”

The admission ricocheted across the room, hitting you, then the pillow, then him, before grazing you one last time.

Obi-Wan said nothing. He simply lay down on his back and pulled you into him, mixing his legs with yours and linking you to him through a iron-clad arm around you waist.

“Just listen to my heartbeat,” Obi-Wan said softly, so you did. You clung to him, gripping his v-neck like it was the only thing that could anchor you to reality as your tears trickled out in silence.

He ran his fingers down your spine, pressing kisses in your hair, and your breathing began to slow. “I’m sorry,” you said again, voice low and wracked with shame.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Obi-Wan shifted his gaze downwards to meet yours. “Listen to me, _ma fleur._ Everyone has nightmares, about all sorts of things. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He dropped a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Sometimes I dream about my teeth falling out,” he admitted.

It made you smile. “You dork,” you whispered up to him.

_“Et tu m’aime de toute façon.”_

You extended an arm to raise yourself above him. “You know, I don’t even know that means, Obi.”

“Does it matter?” he arched an eyebrow, and you could see his eyes start to darken even in the dim light.

“Let’s just say…” you paused and let your fingers dance a trail up his arm, over his shoulder, sweeping up to cup his jaw.and bringing him in for a kiss. “It’s a good thing I love you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr way back in August for a prompt request -- "it's just a nightmare" + "listen to my heartbeat" -- and finally getting around to putting it on here. As always, I'm over on tumblr under the same username with all sorts of shenanigans; come say hi! [also my formatting can get super weird on AO3; I'm sorry if it's messy!]

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! as always, i'm available over on tumblr.


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